Set Me Free
by YokaiKittens
Summary: "Y-you…git," Arthur gasped. "What the hell do—" Gasp. Pant. "—think…you're doing…" "Kidnaping?" "Well you're not doing a very good job, now are you?" prisoner!Alfred, lawstudent!Arthur. Either a oneshot, or a story, depending on what's requested. Yaoi, USUK.
1. Chapter 1

_**SUMMARY: Arthur Kirkland lived a relatively normal life. He's studying law, has a part time job. Well, had one, that is. He makes things work, and that was pretty much all that mattered. Until, that is, he ends up harboring a baby-faced American, prison-broke imbecilic fugitive who claims he's innocent. And Arthur just might be the only one who can prove it. **_

_**Okay, so this is my second Hetalia fic. I'm beyond addicted to Hetalia, but I was always afraid of writing fics for it because I may...well, screw up. My first one was Stolen Kisses Are The Sweetest, and it was a oneshot, USUK. I thought I did pretty okay on that, and then all the prisoner!Alfred fanarts inspired this story. I was originally going to make Alfred really, really intense, but as the story was written, that didn't really happen. **_

_**I know this was written in the span of two days, and it's hasty and ugh, I know I could've done A LOT better, but I feel like it will take me about a week to revise it to perfection and I'm extremely impatient. I may just come back to the story and revise choppy scenes as I go, but for now, I hope you enjoy. **_

_**I know. Bad summary, cheesy title. Suggestions for a better title, please?**_

* * *

Arthur Kirkland was usually _never _out this late.

But, truth be told, it wasn't really his fault. Balancing college and a part time job was the absolute worst. At least now he didn't have to worry about the part time job. He wouldn't be working there anymore.

He didn't own a car, yet, so he had always just biked or walked to the little grocery market he worked at. But, long story short, he was fed up with it. From being harassed about his sexuality by college boys that seemed to drop by only to do _just that _or his bigot boss, a woman who refused to let him change shifts so he didn't have to deal with them. He was fed up. So he gave up.

But maybe Arthur had acted too rash. He really _needed _a job right now. He was practically living off frozen meals of fish and chips and bagged crisps. That, and couldn't he have waited to quit until his shift was over? It was literally raining cats and dogs.

Most of the shop windows were dimmed, all besides one that caught his eye. He used to be able to go there all the time, a little café that served the absolute best earl gray tea, and was also a quaint little book store. The lights were bright and warm; welcoming. Always as he had remembered. He hadn't been able to go in a long time, maybe months. His schoolwork had practically consumed him. He'd tried doing his work in the little café, but it was hard to concentrate with the lovely aroma of fresh teas and coffees and the crisp smell of freshly published books.

No longer an employee, and now a few hours of free time on his hands, Arthur hurriedly crossed the street through the rain and opened the door to the bookstore. The bell ringed welcomingly and the overwhelming warmth made him sigh in complete relief.

There was a small old lady at the counter near the door that watched Arthur curiously as he made his way to the shelves. He decided to be quick; he wanted to go home and just rest in the remaining amount of free time he had. He chose a book at random, not really bothering to read the back or the reviews as he tended to do. He made his way toward the café section and sat down to bask in the overwhelming, motherly scents and read his novel.

Luckily, he'd picked up a mystery novel, one of his favorites. Five pages in and he had to keep telling himself, "I'll just finish this chapter then pack up to go…" or "Well…one more page couldn't hurt…" And before he really knew what had happened, about two hours had passed and the sweet lady at the counter had come to tell him it was time to close up.

She saw the weary look in his eyes as he lifted a tired gaze from the pages of the book. He had a sweet face, she noticed. He reminded her of her own grandson. The lady patted his shoulder.

"Bad day, huh?" she concluded.

A bit surprised, Arthur's eyes met hers, and then he looked back down at the closed book on the table. He nodded solemnly. "I…lost my job."

The lady, Clarice, her nametag declared, hadn't expected him to tell her exactly why but was pleased, none the less. He probably just needed to get it off his chest, and Clarice was a very good listener. "I understand, love. We all go through tough times, but it'll get better."

Arthur nodded, standing and slinging his shoulder bag over his neck. Clarice patted the tall boy endearingly, giving him a comforting smile. "I'll tell you what," she stated, "Come back tomorrow evening and I may be able to get you an interview with Mr. Forks, the owner of this place. We could use a helping hand."

Arthur looked at Clarice with wide eyes. "Really?" he asked hopefully.

Clarice winked at him, laughing an aged laugh. "Now hurry, before the rain gets stronger," she urged.

Arthur nodded, hurrying toward the door and waving to the kind woman as he left. Only when he'd stepped out into the rain did he realize he'd left the book at the table and hadn't put it back on the shelf as he should've. He contemplated going back inside, but thought otherwise. At least his day was made a little better.

He made the long trek to his apartment, the rain pounding against his umbrella. The rain was calming, almost assuring. At least things were going to be okay, he assured himself. He may have another part time job. And he'll be able to pick up on his schoolwork soon enough. Things would get better. Please let them get better.

And maybe it was his wishful thinking that got him in this situation.

It was late. Streets weren't safe at night. Arthur Kirkland indeed felt like the biggest bloody idiot in all of England.

On that night, when he'd had just the smallest hint of hope, it was smashed to bits.

Arthur was taken hostage.

He was just a block away from the apartment complex he called home, too. So close, right? But damn it all, his days never go right and they weren't going to start getting better now.

He was walking, there on the sidewalk, when he was hit on the back of the head with something metal. And God, did it hurt. He heard a chain rattling. He was really, really confused. Arthur's umbrella dropped and he collapsed on the ground, face down, trying to process things as his mind faded in and out of fuzziness.

He was being lifted. Well, dragged. Large hands picked him up below the arms and dragged him off the sidewalk. The fuzziness was slowly, slowly fading. He regained enough of his find to scream, "Let…let go of me this instant!" And meagerly struggled against the one carrying him. But he still felt weak from the blow to his head. He wanted to puke. The rain seemed too loud in his ears. Panic made him shake.

"L…let me g-go…" his own voice rung in his ears. His head hurt a lot. _I think I'm bleeding, _Arthur thought vaguely. His vision was blurring at the edges, and he had to close his eyes and readjust before opening them again to try and find his surroundings, memorize the route so he could make his way out if he were to escape. He recognized where he was. _How did he get me here so fast?_

Arthur's body was being dragged to the apartment complex. All the lights in the two story building were out and the Briton was being dragged to the side of the building. Arthur was baffled. _Was this guy a bloody idiot?_

Arthur squirmed, but only managed making the stronger man grunt as he carried him. He knew he was still too dazed to fight back properly, but Arthur was slowly regaining his strength. Soon he would be able to throw in a good punch.

The man dragged Arthur into the complex through the side of the building, and quickly went through the exit doors up the stairs. The stairs hurt his legs, but after the first flight was climbed, the man hoisted Arthur onto his broad shoulder. _The guy was in a bloody jumpsuit. A jumpsuit for Christ's sake!_

The man carried him up to the third floor. He was at least smart enough to avoid the elevator, where anybody could pop up. But why here? Arthur could beat on the walls and scream and get people's attention very easily. Hope was high again.

The man carried him down the hall and dropped Arthur rather abruptly on the ground. Arthur coughed, lifted his head drowsily, breathing just as heavily as his captor. He saw the orange jumpsuit, and saw the broadness of the shoulders and neck…and then the fairly tan, smooth skin that glistened with sweat…and then the dirty blonde hair, with a rather abrupt cowlick that bounced with his jerky movements. Startling sky blue eyes. There was a broken pieces of handcuffs on his wrists.

Arthur felt like he was going to be sick. Did he have a concussion? That what happens, right? You feel sick and you puke and you forget things and your head hurts like hell. Arthur didn't feel like he'd forgotten anything. He couldn't really think right now anyway. His head fell back against the wall and he tried desperately not to get sick all over the carpet, tried to calm himself down enough to think. Just think.

He couldn't move. That was for sure. His head pounded with every movement. There was no use in crawling. He'd be too easy to catch and just end up wasting energy. And he'd need that energy. His head hurt a lot. Arthur was pretty sure he was bleeding from that hit.

Hands were on him. His hips. Arthur's eyes shot open and he saw the mop of messy blonde hair bent to him, and his captor's hands were feeling him. He found what he was looking for—reached into Arthur's pocket and pulled out the key—his apartment key.

"N-no…" Arthur protested weakly, panting breath restraining a desperate voice.

He heard the familiar click of the door. Arthur was being lifted again, much to his displeasure. He felt motion sick. "Up ya go," the boy said. The way the words came out indicated that his captor was definitely not from around here. That was a clear American accent.

"I didn't really mean to hit you that hard," the man with the boyish face told Arthur as he placed him more gently on the couch where he watched Arthur try to register things rather dazedly. "I was hoping you'd be unconscious…"

"Y-you…_git," _Arthur gasped. "What the hell do—" Gasp. Pant. "—think…you're doing…"

"Kidnaping?"

Arthur mustered enough strength to glare. "Well you're not doing a very good job, now are you?"

"I think I'm doing good so far."

_"You brought me to my own bloody apartment!"_

"Well…yeah," he conceded. "But I know how to keep you here and to keep you quiet."

Arthur didn't say anything for a while. He just focused on trying to sit up straight, which meant gripping the couch and pulling himself upward. He gasped with the effort, and the back of his head stung. He hissed.

"Dammit, you're bleeding." And then he disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with paper towels.

He reached for Arthur, and Arthur retaliated. "No! Don't touch me!" He shoved rather weakly at the other blonde, who only gave him aggravated glare.

"Fine. Bleed out." But he continued reaching for Arthur until he got tired of fighting. He let his captor dab at the back of his head, hold it three to absorb blood, and then dab more.

"What's…stopping me…from screaming bloody murder and alerting everyone in this building?"

His captor gave him a stony glare. "Cork."

"Wha…what?"

"That's where she lives. Cork, Ireland. 228 Forest Lane, Cork."

He was answered with a horrified gaze.

Baby-face smirked. "Yep. Carlin Kirkland, age 21, currently living with her boyfriend of 23. Richard or something. I personally think she could do better. And then there is Dylan Kirkland…"

"Who told you all this? Why are you doing this? Are you going to hurt them?"

"Allistor. I need your help. And I will if you don't help me."

"Allistor?!"

"He was my roomie in the ward. Only one that actually believed me in my case. He told me you're studying law. You're almost done with school. You can help me clear my name."

"Tell Allistor that he can go to hell. He's exactly where he belongs, giving away his family like that. And I hope you go after him."

"It's Alfred," he replied. "And I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you. Three years in prison gets you places. Gives you connections. I have someone special in Ireland right now, waiting for a phone call. They do what I say. Don't make me use that number, Arthur. I just want your help. I'm not guilty."

"Says the man who hit me on the back of the head and dragged me to my apartment!"

"Granted. How else was I supposed to make you listen? I did this so you'd have no choice in the matter. I don't want to hurt your family. I really don't. All I want from you is your help."

Arthur considered his position a moment, but realized there wasn't much to think about. His siblings may have hated him, but he certainly didn't hate them. He still loved them. He wouldn't let them die if he had a choice.

"For the record, I only went into law because I thought I'd be living a mystery novel or something. There's no guarantee I can clear your name or whatever my brother promised of me."

"That's fine. I just need you to try. My family is in America, and they believe I actually did what I was accused of, so I don't have money for a lawyer, and it doesn't help that I'm a foreigner."

"What were you accused of?"

"Murder." And this was followed by a devilish smirk that matched his babyish face.

Arthur swallowed. He still felt a bit dizzy from the blow, but now he just wanted to sleep. This really was too much.

But the jumper.

"You…escaped prison."

"Yeah."

"You…you're a fugitive."

A nod.

"I'm harboring a fugitive!"

Alfred nodded gravely. "I've been careful, don't worry. You just need to stay quiet until you graduate in…how long?"

"…Three months."

"Great. That's not too long."

"Three months is a bloody long time to harbor a fugitive! This plan—if you can even consider it a plan—is going to end up getting me in the slammer. God, you imbecile!"

Alfred, to Arthur's surprise, just laughed as he watched the English boy rant. "I don't know if anyone's told you this before, but you have a really cute angry face."

"Shut up, you wanker—what are you doing? Put me down or I'll shove my foot so far up your ass—"

"He said you had a foul mouth. Still not as bad as Allistor's but—"

"Don't compare me to my brother, you—"

"Adorable?"

"Foul—"

"Innocent?"

"Loathsome—"

Alfred dropped him on his own bed. "G'night, Artie."

"That's _not_ my name! And don't just walk away—"

Alfred turned, pecked him on the forehead. Laughed hysterically at the shocked, glazed eyes of the British law student. "Sleep tight."

The door shut behind Alfred, leaving Arthur in the dark.

* * *

_**Thanks for reading. So will this be a oneshot, or should I continue? I'd like to continue but I'm afraid I've never written yaoi and it's rated M for a reason. **_

_**Again, thank you for reading! Reviews mean the world to me!**_


	2. Chapter 2

Needless to say, Arthur woke up with a massive headache in the morning.

He let his eyes roll shut, groaning. This is worse than a hangover, he thought bitterly as he clutched his head, sitting up tiredly. The sunlight hurt a bit as he struggled out of bed, toward the bathroom. He stripped quickly and took a hot shower which seemed to ease his aching muscles. A little bit of the water turned red; he watched it tumble down the drain until the water became clear again.

_Oh, right. Yesterday really did happen._

But the apartment was achingly quiet, Arthur noticed as he stepped back into his bedroom, a towel slung around his waist. Since he was still coincidently fired, he slipped into a large t-shirt and boxers, and a tight pair of jeans. Then he made his way into the hallway.

He heard the sound of the sink running as he stepped into the living room. A sport's game was blaring from Arthur's speakers and T.V. screen, and the American was in the kitchen, hands dunked in the sink, right under the faucet. He kept wincing, like he was in pain.

Arthur muted the telly, still staring at the fugitive now living in his home.

"Hey!" Alfred shouted indignantly, "I was watching that…"

"Does it look like I care?"

Alfred met Arthur's glare. Then, simply rolled his eyes. Arthur approached him behind the counter. "What are you doing?"

Alfred grunted as he yanked his hand. Arthur saw what he was doing. He had put soap all over his hand and was trying to slip it out of the handcuffs. His hands and wrists were red—he was rubbing his skin raw.

Arthur jumped. "You idiot! What do you think you're doing?!"

"Trying to get these off," Alfred murmured as he yanked.

"Stop it!" he screeched, pulling the other boy's hand's from the sink. He examined the horribly raw hands for a few moments before moving away, beginning to rummage around in drawers.

"What are you doing?" Alfred asked as Arthur slammed another drawer shut.

Finally, he found what he was looking for and pulled a small paper clip from the drawer. "Come over here," he instructed. Alfred did. "Hands out." Alfred did that also.

Arthur worked vigorously for about thirty minutes to get the first handcuff off, straightening the clip and then maneuvering it and bending it as if it was second nature. When the handcuff dropped to the ground at Alfred's feet (the chain linking the handcuffs had been cut in half) the American gave an enormous sigh of relief. Arthur moved to the other one.

"Where…did you learn to do that?" Alfred asked warily.

"You'd be surprised how many mystery novels are told from the criminal's point of view," Arthur said distractedly, just as the handcuff clicked and fell to the floor. Alfred rubbed his wrists as the Brit picked up the broken cuffs and tossed them in the trash.

Alfred blinked at the boy, obviously dumbfounded. He looked away. "So, Eyebrows, how do you usually spend your days?"

Arthur's cheeks puffed out. "Don't call me that!" he shouted over his shoulder as he moved to the fridge to pull out a frozen pop tart. "And I had a job until yesterday."

Alfred's smile dropped momentarily. "Did I get you fired already?"

Arthur glared, moving to the toaster. "No. I quit."

"Oh," Alfred said, with the ignorance of a child. "Why?"

Arthur's ambience darkened. "I…got tired of dealing with certain people."

"What _kind _of people?" Alfred pressed, leaning against the counter, grinning idiotically.

Arthur put the frozen pop tart in the toaster. He didn't turn around as he spoke darkly. "Homophobes."

Alfred froze. He was silent for a few minutes, not exactly sure what to say, before he laughed gently, almost kindly. "You won't find a lot of those in prison! I guess I forgot that it's different outside…"

Arthur turned to give the boy a skeptical look.

"Don't worry; I'm right down your alley, buddy." The American winked; not suggestively, Arthur thought. Just generally.

He rolled his eyes, going toward the cabinet to make his morning tea. He heard his new fugitive stalk back towards the T.V. and begin turning the volume back up, where a monotone American accented voice stated the play-by-play of an American football game. American, American, American. Arthur was going to go insane.

Arthur finished brewing his tea and sat down on the couch, pulling his legs up comfortably under him. He grabbed the remote and began scrolling the guide, taking the chance with Alfred not in the room. He was _not _going to listen to sports all day.

His inner child giggled as he came across Doctor Who reruns on the Tenth Doctor. A few of his favorite episodes, too. He sipped his tea, grinning madly as he began to watch Sally Sparrow uncover the mystery of the Weeping Angels.

He ate his pop tart, all the while, sipping delicately on his steaming tea, sweetened to perfection. Alfred walked back into the room.

"What are you _wearing?"_ Arthur asked in an accusatory tone. He clearly recognized one of his band t-shirts and boxer shorts. The shirt was definitely too snug on him. He _was _bulkier than Arthur. And that shirt was _loose _on the Brit…

"I don't have anything else," he whined. "God, you're small!" He tugged at the sides of the shirt.

"No, you're just big," Arthur commented. He froze.

Alfred gave him a hurt sort of look, but froze with him as the words processed. He then began snickering childishly.

"Oh, shut it!" The Brit grouched, rolling his eyes back toward the T.V. and turning up the volume.

Alfred plopped down beside him. "What's this?"

Arthur was silent for a long time, contemplating whether or not he should engage, but with the American staring at him so openly, it made him sigh, replying, "Doctor Who."

"What's it about?"

_Friendship. Love. Bravery. Loss… _"A timelord whom travels in his space ship, going through time and saving the universe from threat." No need to go more deeply in the companions or anything. It was a bit too complex for such a struggling mind to handle.

Alfred nodded excitedly, pulling his legs into his chest. The boxers were too small on him too…

Arthur sipped his tea, watching Alfred carefully through the corner of his eye.

"Is she the timelord?"

"No."

"Where's the timelord?"

"Not here yet."

"I want to see the time lord."

'Dear God, shut up. He'll be here any minute!"

…

"Is _he_ the timelord?"

"No…"

Alfred was quiet for a while, just as the Weeping Angels began to get creepy. He had gotten into a fetal position, clutching a pillow to his chest.

"Did you see that? The statue moved!" he said, pointing to the screen excitedly.

"Yes, Alfred, I saw."

And then about ten minutes later…

"Oh my God! It's right in his face! IT'S RIGHT IN HIS FACE!" He was now alternating from putting the pillow over his eyes, to peeking over it, childish fear sparking those baby blue eyes behind his spectacles. Why was he just now realizing the other had glasses?

And then he calmed down another few minutes later…

"What's the blue thingy?"

"That's the Tardis, the timelord's space ship. It's…bigger on the inside."

"Oh, cool!"

And then the antagonists of the episode returned, proceeding to scare the crap out of the American. Arthur sipped his tea as the other screamed bloody murder.

He placed his empty cup down on the table and smiled as he swung his legs onto the couch and laid down, taking up half of it, with his head on the cushioned arm rest. He angled his head so he could watch his favorite part—the Weeping Angels rocking the Tardis forward and back as the two inside shrieked in fear.

Alfred, on the other hand, had completely gone off his walker. "No no no no no no no no no no no!"

"Shh!" Arthur said, tossing him an angered look.

The characters' safety began to dissipate. They panicked. Alfred did with them. And then proceeded to throw himself onto the Brit.

"No! They're gonna get them! Look at their faces! Oh, my God!"

"Alfred , get off me, you bloody wanker!"

"No!" Alfred curled into him, his head on Arthur's chest, and his waist between his legs. Arthur panicked when Alfred's knee nudged itself on the Brit's crotch.

"A-Alfred, get off!" He weakly pushed at him, pulling on his t-shirt frantically. He made a strained sound as the leg pressed harder into Arthur's vital regions. He let out a soft cry. "Alfred, you're _knee_—get off…"

Finally seeming to recognize Arthur's urgency, he placed his hands on either side of Arthur's waist, lifting upward to look down between the two at his knee pressed on the Brit's groin. "Sorry, Artie!" he said, that childish grin evident.

"Get off." Arthur used his legs to push the other off him, already regretting the way those sounds escaped his throat. They weren't pained…they were lustier then they were supposed to be. "And to think they thought someone like _you _could commit murder!"

"Hey, I could commit murder if I wanted to! But that's against my hero policy." The American had seemed to move on from the crotch incident, as was Arthur's new name for it, and he was grateful.

"Your what?"

"My hero policy! Duh." Alfred leaned back into the couch, taking the opposite position that Arthur was in, and nudging the other with his foot. Arthur slapped it away.

"You have a hero policy? That's funny, I don't see any heroes…"

"Ha-ha, very funny. It just so happens that you have become my sidekick."

"Your what?"

"Do I have to repeat everything for you?"

"Quit blurting out nonsense and you won't have to! And quit making things up, I'm not your sidekick!"

"Yeah, you are. I'm the hero who has been wrongly accused and you are the sidekick who is trying to help me out!"

Arthur rolled his eyes; he didn't feel like arguing, and he knew the blonde would simply counter it with new nonsense. So he went to make himself more tea while Alfred watched him. He seemed to do that quite a bit. Just watching Arthur as if the things he did were completely foreign.

"Do you have any coffee?" He asked as he watched Arthur make his tea.

"No, I don't."

"You have a coffee maker."

"I noticed, Alfred," Arthur chided, watching the tea boil.

"Why do you have it if you don't make coffee?"

"Because I like to taunt talkative, tea-deprived Americans like you."

Alfred pouted. "You're mean. I thought British people were nice."

"Ha! What gave you that idea?"

"Because British people are hot—I thought their personalities would match," Alfred shrugged.

Arthur dropped his tea bag. He turned to look at the messy blonde, whose smile was slowly widening. He was extremely confused, though that wasn't what he let on. Was he trying to lead him on? Or was that a part of his rambunctious personality?

_It' doesn't matter! _Arthur told himself. _He's charged with murder; he's a fugitive who could get you in jail just by being here. He'll just drag you down with him…_

Arthur turned back to his tea. "Stop that."

"Stop what?" Alfred said with that stupid grin.

"Stop making that face. It's bothering me."

"What face? My sexy face? Well, I'm sorry, honey, but I wear that all day." An obnoxious wiggle of his eyebrows.

Arthur rolled his eyes, finished with his tea, and made his way back into the living room, placing his tea down. "You are…" Arthur sighed. Never before had he run out of words.

"Adorable, right?"

"…Something like that."

He'd meant for it to be sarcastic but apparently Alfred didn't understand that. "Awe! Artie—"

"That was sarcasm, Alfred."

A hurt, puppy dog gaze. "But…I am adorable…"

Arthur rolled his eyes, but refused to fall into that trap.

He would not let himself fall into _any _of Alfred's charming traps…

* * *

Later that evening, Arthur was making his way back to the bookstore café. Alfred had finally let him go after interrogating him as to where, to which, as he pushed passed him, replied, "To get a job. I'm not living off of ramen for the rest of my college career."

He slipped through the doors, the bell ringing above him in a harmonious twinkle. The woman, Clarice, scurried from behind the counter and took his hand. "Oh! I'm so glad you came! The Boss is in a great mood today, so you're sure to get the job. Do you have a résumé?"

"Y-yes, right here." Arthur began to pull it from his messenger bag.

"Great, yes, just back here." Clarice ushered him toward the back of the building, where he walked through an open office door. A white-haired old man sat behind a small wooden desk. When he smiled, his teeth were surprisingly bright it seemed like the most carefree smile Arthur had ever seen. This must've been Clarice's husband...

"Hello, son." The old man had an accent, though Arthur couldn't place it. Definitely wasn't British. "May I see your papers?"

"Yes, sir." Arthur handed the slightly crumpled papers to the old man.

He pulled a pair of spectacles much too small for his face from his pocket, placed them before his eyes. Read silently but quickly over the words on the pages. "Arthur Kirkland."

"Yes."

"You're studying law?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any experience?"

"With sales? Yes sir, I can work a register, and…"

"That's good."

"Um…and I've been coming here for years. I'm confident that I know everywhere nook and cranny of the book shelves, category and all."

The man's dark eyes twinkled. He reminded Arthur of Santa Claus. Certainly looked like him, at least. He seemed extremely pleased by this information. He held out a large, pudgy hand. "Welcome aboard, m'boy!" His mustache curled with his smile. The Brit took the man's hand, unable to contain his smile.

"Is that it?"

"What it?"

"I mean…I have the job?"

"I said that, didn't I?"

Arthur decided not to push his luck. "Thank you so much, sir! I'll work really hard!"

The old man clapped him on the back. "Please, I am Alvar. Thank you for applying, Arthur Kirkland. May I keep these papers?" He waved them around a bit.

"Yes, of course! Go ahead…"

"The old man, Alvar, placed the papers under a weight on his desk and then turned back to Arthur. "Can you start tomorrow?"

"Yes, I can."

"Good. You'll work evenings from 5:00 to midnight. Tomorrow will be your practice run, to see how well you work."

"O-Okay… I'll see you tomorrow, then, Clarice," Arthur said, turning to the woman. She smiled graciously.

"Goodbye, dear."

Arthur escaped the room hurriedly. He'd been worried for nothing! That had been incredibly easy. Why did he think it would be hard?

How had he gotten so lucky, anyway? He got a job in the only place he seemed to gain solitude, surrounded by books and tea. It was like his dream job; well, almost. Arthur smiled, giddy with excitement as he walked the two blocks back to his apartment.

_Crap, _he thought. _I didn't even ask what my salary was! Or what days I'd have off. _

_Well, I can always ask tomorrow…_

Arthur went up the lift and walked toward his apartment door, unlocking it and stepping in. As soon as he was in, he dropped his bag. Seeing the living room and kitchen empty, he went back to his bedroom.

"Alfred! Get off my bed!"

The American grunted, burying his face into Arthur's massive pillow pile. Arthur began to pull off his pants, leaving himself in his boxers and t-shirt, and then crawled up to the head of the bed, grabbing a pillow, and smacking the other repeatedly. "You're sleeping on the couch! Get out!"

"No…" The blonde groaned, switching positions to glare at Arthur.

Arthur began to push the other out of bed, but he stayed glued to the same spot. God, why was he so bloody huge? "G-Get….out!"

When Alfred wouldn't budge, he groaned inwardly and lay down beside him, slipping under the blankets and scooting towards the edge. "I'm locking my bedroom door tomorrow."

"A-huh," Alfred replied tiredly, most likely not even hearing him.

_He weighs so much, my body feels like it's sliding towards his end of the bed._

He gripped the sheets hurriedly, trying to keep himself steady, and somehow managed to fall asleep as the other snored gently behind him.

* * *

_**Hello. I updated! Yay! **_

_**And woah! I didn't expect so much feedback. Nineteen reviews on the first chapter? I've never gotten so many before on a first chapter! Thank you so much. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint you, though it is a bit uneventful. Thank you so much for reading!**_

_**Alvar is a Finnish name, by the way. Do with that information what you will. ^_^**_

_**And sorry for the overwhelming Doctor Who-ness of this chapter. I hope it didn't turn some of you off. **_

_**Thank you for reading!**_


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